


In the Talons of a Griffon

by tollofthebells



Series: Emilia Cousland [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Revenge, Shock, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: What happens after you get your revenge?





	In the Talons of a Griffon

A grimace washes over Alistair’s face, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Why?”

But it’s as though she doesn’t see him. She doesn’t hear him. She stands with her back to him, a bloodied blade in each hand, the victims of her vengeance, her wrath fallen mercilessly around her. He’d called out to her before, asked her to hold on, to wait for him and Leliana; they’d been battling their way through the dungeons of the arl’s estate for ages and he _knew_ they were nearing an end, but she’d pressed on ahead of them, without them, _without me._ He should have known better. Emilia wasn’t here to rescue the queen—Anora was a bloody _afterthought_ in all of this; the second the elven maid had let Rendon Howe’s name slip from her lips, Emilia was gone. Lost to them. Seeing red. He should have seen it. _I should have known._

“Why didn’t you wait?” he asks her again. He means to sound strong, firm, confident, means to be her rock like she’s been his so many times before but he can’t. He doesn’t. His voice shakes. His words falter.

“Emilia?” he asks, _why do I sound so small when I only want to help you?_

At last she turns to face him, and the air rushes from his lungs like a river through a broken dam. She’s _covered_ in blood. Soaked through. For a moment he pales, _is any of it_ her _blood?_ but no, she stands too tall, too still…too _calm_ to sustain that sort of injury. It paints her pale skin, streaks her face, trickles down her arms like rainwater in a tempest and the only places he doesn’t see red are her blue eyes, _too bright, too clear,_ and her teeth, white, bared, the ghost of a vindictive smile still haunting her lips.

“Em?” he chokes, and she _laughs_ , voiceless, silent, but unmistakable, the near-manic grin resurfacing as she turns back around. There have to be ten, fifteen dead around the room and only one has ever mattered to her. She leans forward—he doesn’t have to see the body she stands before to know who it is—and pulls a great axe from the floor, a blade once meant for her back, a handle now meant for her hands.

“They’re gone.” Her voice is light, pitch high, _too high_ , words like a song over the stale dungeon air, and the control, the _satisfaction_ in her tone sends trickles of ice down Alistair’s spine. She hoists the axe over her shoulder and gives the hilt of her sword—her family’s sword, the _Cousland’s_ sword—a quick squeeze, _once, twice_ , before running her bloodstained fingers through her hair, red on brown, thick, heavy. “They’re all gone.”

“Emilia, I—”

“Emilia!” Leliana echoes, finally catching up to them. “Blessed Andraste,” she adds under her breath, taking in the carnage around them, the way Emilia stands like a mad queen before subjects damned under her reign and even for the closeness he knows the two girls share, for once, he wishes they were alone. He didn’t know what to do, how to help her—only that something was very, very wrong. “Alistair,” Leliana says quietly, “we can’t linger here, we have to—”

“Yes,” he swallows, nods, “yes.” Their task had been arduous enough, how they’d be able to move Anora from the estate with Emilia still blinded with red fervor he wasn’t sure, but he was certain that they couldn’t stay where they were. “Em?” he tries, weakly though he wills his voice to stay strong, and he approaches her slowly, cautiously, as one would a wild animal, wary and timid and guarded against the unknown. _Em wouldn’t hurt us_ , he thinks, stepping with care over the bodies littering the ground; she’d been aggressive, hot-tempered ever since he’d met her but never against _friends_. Never against _him_. She _loved_ him; she’d told him so, and yet he still felt a sense of unease, an unseen hand trying as it might to tug him back to safety but _no_ , he pressed forward. “Emilia.”

She doesn’t look at him. She looks _through_ him, but not _at_ him.

“Emilia, we have to go.” He stretches a hand out to her, open and inviting and _I’ve got you, Em, let me take you now_ but she only stares at it, eyes wide and unseeing. “Em,” he whispers, a final plea, and at last she reaches reluctantly out to him, offering her hand as though they are meeting for the first time and he takes it firmly, though her gloves are slick with blood, pulls her to him, looks her in the eye, _I’ve got you, Em._

They walk the empty halls of the dungeons now, quick stepping and hand in hand and Leliana next to them and in _silence_ , dead silence, only the sounds of their deft boots and his ever-clanking armor accompanying their movements and when they get upstairs it’s Alistair who must speak with Anora and Alistair who has to beckon her out of her room and Alistair who needs to plan their quick and stealthy escape.

Or at least, it would have been quick and stealthy.

If every guard in Howe’s estate didn’t descend upon them the moment they arrived in the entrance hall.

And _oh_ if there’s ever a time for Emilia’s quick wit, silver tongue, elegant diplomacy, it’s now, but his pulse runs high and his hopes less so and when the leader of the guard before them tells them what they already know— _you’re surrounded_ , _you’re guilty of trespassing_ , _if you don’t surrender now, all of you will die_ —and Emilia grins, she _grins_ —he knows they are in too deep. Too far.

“Will we, Ser Cauthrien?” she asks the knight, laughing mirthlessly. “And would you strike your Queen down with us?”

 _Maker save us all_ , Alistair thinks, and he pushes Anora out of the way before it’s too late because in _seconds_ Emilia’s drawn her daggers again, and Leliana her bow, and each and every guard around them their swords and _oh we_ are _surrounded_ , he thinks, heart pounding as he unsheathes his own blade, raises his shield in defense.

But just as before, Emilia is relentless. Tireless. _Flawless_. A flurry of silverite and onyx before him, leaping and dodging and twirling about, a blur of red-stained blue among the onslaught of silver steel. He has his own share of kills—as does Leliana, no doubt—but it’s Emilia who takes on the brunt of them, slashing and ducking and whirling about until Alistair is out of breath, until Leliana’s quiver is nearly empty, until the only one who remains is Ser Cauthrien, bloodied and tired but not finished.

And neither is Emilia.

They circle each other slowly, like predators around prey, blades raised and ready, prowling, glaring. Leliana doesn’t move but he readies his own sword, _I’ve got you, Em._

“Get back,” she snarls at him. Her braid is all but undone, the navy sleeves of her jacket torn and reddened with blood and she’s a _mess_ , she should be hindered by exhaustion but she stands strong as ever, unbothered, blue eyes never leaving Cauthrien.

It isn’t a long fight.

Cauthrien is weary. Already wounded. Undone. She is no match for the ruthless high Emilia still runs on, and in only moments, before Alistair can even make a second attempt at assisting, she lies dead upon Emilia’s knives.

The room is silent.

But this time, Emilia does not stand as one victorious.

This time, she holds still for only a moment before her shoulders slump forward, and she releases the knight, daggers and all, letting her fall to the floor before sinking herself to her knees, heaving deep, labored breaths. Shaking. As though she is the one defeated here.

Anora speaks first. “We need to go,” she says, firmly, clearly once she’s emerged from the end of the hall; _she’s right_ , he knows and yet he can’t stand the thought of taking orders from anyone but Emilia and he ignores her outright, approaching his love where she kneels in silence, still but for the rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes.

“Emilia?” he asks softly, steadying his voice; he’d rather die than be anything but strong for her right now. _I’ve got you._ “Emilia, come on. Let’s go, okay?”

She looks up at him, blue eyes clouded and weary but meeting his, and nods. “Okay,” she says, and her voice is small and her tone shakes and she _gives_ him her hand this time, _willingly_ , and her fingers are sticky with blood again but underneath, her skin is cold.

* * *

He is left alone almost immediately upon returning to Eamon’s estate. Anora retreats to speak with the arl; Wynne immediately whisks Emilia away— _give her room_ —she commands when he tries to follow. Leliana fields questions from the others— _what happened back there?_ and _is she all right?_ and _why is there so much blood?_ and _what will we do now that the queen is here?_ and she takes them all, answers them all with a sureness and a strength he only wished he had.

 _She means well_ , he knows, but without the distraction of friends, he is alone.

Without Emilia, he is unsure.

And so he does what feels right. Cleans up. Bathes. Exchanges the bloodied armor for a fresh shirt, a new pair of trousers. Eats, when Leliana urges him, joins Oghren by the fire in the hall when the dwarf beckons to him. He tries to laugh at his jokes but he refuses his mug of ale and he gives up, _eh, I know where your mind is anyway_ , Oghren grunts, and for once he doesn’t insinuate anything lewd or foul.

When Wynne returns, he rises immediately, but she silences him before he can even speak with a raised hand and a shake of the head. “I told her to get some rest,” she says quietly. “She needs it. And so do you.”

“But—”

“You’ve been through quite the ordeal today,” she interrupts him. She’ll hear no argument. As usual. “Both of you.”

He swallows. He nods. And when he gets up and makes for the hallway, she stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“She needs time to process everything,” she says to him softly. “She’s in shock. Imagine, everything you’ve worked so hard for and come so far for, finally destroyed.” Alistair says nothing, and she shakes her head, almost only to herself, and mutters, “And for what?”

“I…” He clenches and unclenches his fist. “I should have been with her,” he says, guilty and angry and most of all _sad_. For _her_. “I could have—I should have—”

“Alistair,” Wynne murmurs. “You can’t protect her from herself.” She releases her hold on his shoulders.

He knows, deep down, that she’s right.

It’s dark when he returns to his quarters, but it might as well be broad daylight. No amount of soft cotton bedding and thick down pillows and silence could help him sleep, not _now_ , not when Em’s somewhere in the estate, alone and without him and when the door to his room opens and a stream of light from the hall floods inside, he sits up instantly, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Em?” he whispers, like he can’t tell, like he wouldn’t be able to pick her silhouette out from a sea of shadows in an instant, but he still asks. “Emilia, is—”

“It’s me.”

She’s broken. He can hear it in her voice, in just the two words, the way her voice cracks, the way she sounds so small and empty and haunted and _oh, Emilia, I’ve got you_. She closes the door, crosses the room; it’s hard to see her in the dark but he hears her feet pad quickly, deftly to his bed, feels the mattress dip down just _so_ when she climbs up.

“Alistair,” she chokes, and his hands are on her in an instant, fumbling through the dark and pulling her to him and wrapping around her shaking body; _shh, Em, I’ve got you_.

“Tell me what to do,” he breaths into her hair, down from her braid and cleaned from the blood earlier. She smells unfamiliar, like the lemon rosemary soaps he’d found down in the estate baths, different and not at all like herself, like earth and sweat and elfroot and roses. “Tell me how to help, tell me what’s wrong.” It’s stupid, he knows, adding that— _everything_ is wrong and yet he’s never _once_ seen Emilia cry, not when she told him how her parents all but died in front of her, not when Ostagar burned and they were the only two still standing, not _ever_ , and he simply didn’t know where to start.

“I don’t—” she whispers, her words shaking with a sob she still held back. “I don’t know how to feel, I don’t know what—what to do, what to—I just feel—I can’t—” Every breath trembles, even her shoulders shake and he does his best to pet her hair, rub her back, but when he opens his mouth to answer her, her lips are on his. Soft, at first. Unsure.

 _She’s never unsure_.

“Emilia,” he breathes, pulling back a bit. “I—”

“Please.” She kisses him again, harder this time, tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks as she takes his hand and pushes it through her unbraided hair. “I just—I need…please” And she does it again. Kisses him.

_She never pleads for anything. To anyone._

“I don’t know if—” he starts, but she silences him with her lips once more. Too many times, he’s been all too happy to become lost in her kisses, dazed by her every touch and intoxicated on her scent alone. Only kisses. Only ever the touch of her lips, the taste of her mouth, a rare night falling asleep beside her in the inn of a quaint town or one of their tents. Nothing more. Never more than that.

Her fingers shake when they reach for the buttons on his shirt and she starts at the top with unsteady hands and ragged breaths. Empty. Calculated. Far away. _She’s never so unfocused_.

“No,” he says, and for once in his life he is _firm_ when he says it, firm when he takes her by the shoulders and pushes her back from him and speaks to her with conviction and with strength and even in spite of the look she gives him, haunted and afraid and confused— _she’s never afraid_ —his voice doesn’t shake, his face doesn’t falter. “I don’t want this, Em. You don’t want this. Not like this. This isn’t what you need right now, what—”

She pushes his hands off of her, moving back, _Em never retreats_. “How do _you_ know what _I_ need?” she spits, and everything is red to her and his heart _aches_ for it because it’s true, he doesn’t _know_ what, not exactly, but _oh, Maker_ , he knows it isn’t this.

“I...” he starts, she _scares_ him sometimes, she probably knows it, but it’s not his place to feel the victim. It’s not his place to feel defeated when it’s her who’s lost so much. “I don’t know, Em,” he murmurs, voice soft, timid, “but I’m trying.”

She’s gone in an instant, scrambling away from him and nearly tripping on his duvet and slamming the door on her way out and everything is cold without Emilia. Everything is empty. For a long time, he sits, alone and cold but making no attempt to retrieve his duvet. He’s not sure how long he waits. It could be hours but he waits alone and _no_ , _no one is more alone than Emilia now_.

It’s with every ounce of courage he has left that he leaves his room, crosses the corridors long empty from the evening earlier, and finds her bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s with a steady hand that he opens her door, and a steady hand that he closes it behind him.

“Emilia?” he whispers into the dark, and he thinks there’s no answer. He thinks it’s silent. Until, from the very corner of the room, a hint of a sob escapes—the kind begging to be suppressed, the kind half covered by a mortified hand in any attempt to take it back. _Oh, Em_ , he thinks, and he rushes across the floor to her, to where she sits against the wall hugging her knees to her chest and _cries_. “Em,” he breathes, “Em,” and when he reaches out to her, chances a hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes instead, and it’s though all the blood in his body chills at once.

“No,” he rushes, “you have nothing to be sorry for.” Her shoulder shake when sobs but when she puts her hand in his, she’s steady, grounded.

“It’s all over,” she breathes, and he hugs her into his lap. “He’s dead, Howe’s dead, I killed—I’ve killed so many people.”

He strokes her hair, kisses her forehead. “We all have, Em,” he whispers. “We all do.”

“I just—” and when she gasps for air, he lets her. He waits. “I just can’t...I don’t know…” But she can only breathe, in and out, shake her head, _no, it’s okay, Em._

“You don’t have to know,” he murmurs, cradling the back of her head. “Not now. Not yet.” He holds her close, close, he’d pull her inside him if he could, if he thought it would save her from all of this, and he lets her breathe, feels her breathe, feels a slight chill as the air around them cools the damp spots on his shirt where her tears had soaked through. “Emilia, Emilia, _Emilia_ ,” he whispers, again and again, as many times as she needs.

She grips her fingers around his shoulder when she pulls herself closer to him, strong and hardy and he won’t tell her if she holds on too tight, if her nails dig into his skin because this is _her_ ; this is the Emilia he knows.

“Em,” he murmurs to her, placing his hand over her fingers. “I’ve got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works since October! A shortened version originally appeared on my [tumblr](https://bitchesofostwick.tumblr.com/post/179533974443/october-day-28-as-promised-this-one-goes-out).


End file.
